


Mrs. Hudson's Eggnog

by kissing2cousins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, Drunk Sherlock, Drunkenness, Eggnog, Gift Giving, Kissing, M/M, Snogging, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:25:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissing2cousins/pseuds/kissing2cousins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a successful Chistmas get together at 221B Baker Street with all their friends, John tried to clean up.  Trying to enlist Sherlock's help might have gotten him more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mrs. Hudson's Eggnog

Little pic for you to enjoy of our beloved johnlock!

 

 

John could pretty much admit that the Christmas party had been a hit.  221B had overflowed with people, merry making, and presents.  Most of the attendee's seemed to enjoy Sherlock's little deductive parlor tricks, as he guessed the contents of each package correctly before the intended recipient opened it.  It was actually fun. 

 

There had been lots of Chinese take away eaten, as well as all the customary Christmas baking—some homemade, most purchased—chocolates, spirits, and Mrs.  Hudson's traditional egg nog.  They had sang a few songs, rather terribly, while Sherlock serenaded them with beautiful renditions of the classic Christmas songs on his violin—grimacing all the while.  John had quite enjoyed that part and he felt that everyone else had as well.  Molly Hooper had lit up like a Christmas tree watching his graceful fingers run the neck with practiced precision.  John had mostly just enjoyed the juxtaposition of Sherlock's frown as the perfectly timed notes rang out in joyful little tunes from the gleaming body of the violin.

 

All of them had gone now.  Lestrade had escorted Molly out to her waiting cab and Mrs. Hudson finally had whisked herself back down to her own flat, leaving the two flat mates alone again.  For a few hours 221B had seemed incredibly normal, warm, and inviting.  It had been a nice change from the usual half-finished experiments, detritus, and the crazy antics of one bored consulting detective.  Now it was a mess, littered with the after effects of such a convivial evening.

 

John had started to clean up after Mrs. Hudson had retired, picking up the cups, plates, and silverware, carrying them to the sink.  The pile was growing quite large and he really did not plan to wash them right away, so he left them heaped in the sink.  It was when he failed to find a place in the fridge for the leftover dish of sticky toffee pudding Molly had baked, between the plastic ziplock of pig’s ears, the tray of a half-dozen mold cultures, and the jug of milk, when he went in search of the detective, all the while wondering why the man was not helping.

 

It did not take much to find him.  Sherlock was sprawled out on the long couch, his one bare foot slung over the low back, the other over the end of the arm, and his head hanging slightly off of the cushion, as though passed out.  John wasn't having any of it.  He marched over to the couch, calling the man loudly, "Sherlock!"

 

The reposed face suddenly moved, his eyes flashing wide open and his dark brows raising.  "John, I've deduced something." he announced, head still upside down, his dark curls a tumbled mess. 

 

John planted his fists on his hips and peevishly responded, "Oh? What's that? The fact you're terrible at cleaning up?"

 

Sherlock seemed to either deftly ignore the spur in his voice or to not apprehend it at all, as he suddenly proclaimed, in a commanding voice, "We should have a baby together, John."

 

John just about snorted the laughter that bubbled out of him more as a not-so-stifled giggle.  "What now?" he questioned, as he eyed the nearly empty glass on the floor by the man's loosely draped hand, "How much of Mrs. Hudson's eggnog did you have?"

 

There was an indignant look on the dark-haired man’s face as he replied, "That is entirely beside the point. Enough to assist in deducing you would make an excellent mother, John." The serious look cracked a little as the quirk of a cheeky grin started at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth while he eyed his flatmate. 

 

John's brows knit in befuddlement and mild offence as he snatched up the stack of untouched napkins and contemplated walking over to swat the consulting detective with them. Deciding to forgo addressing why he was given the matronly role in this whole ludicrous fantasy he instead could not help getting a kick out of seeing the other man so unguarded and outright silly. "God, Sherlock,” he apprized the other, “you know there was a whole bottle of Rum in there, right?"

 

Sherlock's grin melted and he casually waved off the comment with a dismissive gesture, as he resettled himself with his head reclined on the arm of the settee. "I don't see how that has anything to do with anything." 

 

John turned away with a roll of his eyes and continued to gather the remaining napkins as he heard the deep breath from his companion, before he rephrased his argument, "It certainly has nothing to do with us making a baby, John."

 

A bark of laughter escaped him at the matter-of-fact delivery of those words from the drunk genius on the sofa. Walking back into the living room to scrutinize the clean up he replied wryly, "We can't just whip one up in your peetree dishes, Sherlock. Unless there is something you've not told me, I'm afraid neither of us are quite equipped for doing something of that caliber between just the two of us."

 

"Well yes, of course, John, I tell you only what I need you need to know.” He admitted, in his aloof way, before he contended, “As for the rest, you're a doctor, figure it out." Sherlock had let his arm fall over his eyes, shielding out the light from the room but had lifted it just enough to cast a half-lidded look at his flat mate from across the room.

 

"Oh really now, you arse?" John snipped playfully.  He rotated his hands in a circular gesture, questioning, "Well, let's back it up a second. Exactly what brought you to this enchanting conclusion?"

 

Finally satisfied he had gathered up what he was willing to this evening, he wondered over to his chair and flopped himself into it with a sigh. The man kicked his feet, crossing them at the ankle, as he eyed his flatmate amusedly and awaited a response from the prone figure. A few more long moments passed and for a brief second John wondered if the other had finally passed out. 

 

Then the pale lips parted and a wet pink tongue darted out to moisten them in a slow deliberate fashion before responding.  "It's simple really." Another pause and a slow deep breath in past those moist lips, "With my superior intellect and pulchritude in combination with your natural empathy and social stamina our offspring would be unstoppable." The last word left Sherlock's lips with another small upturn which lingered, leaving the impression of supreme self-satisfaction. 

 

John quirked his head to the side inquisitively and scoffed, "As in what? World domination? We are _not_ procreating a super race together, Sherlock. Even if we could."

 

Suddenly a hard pillow whapped John in the face, causing him to start and cry out in offense as Sherlock bellowed pitifully, "You never do _anything_ I want, John!"

 

"Dammit, Sherlock! We only _ever_ do what you _want,_ you big baby! This is exactly why we don't need a baby, I have you!" John had leaned forward in his chair, recovering his mussed hair and straightening his shirt as he tossed the pillow back across the parlor at Sherlock who deftly snatched it out of the air. He drew it close and wrapping his arms around it he cuddled the union jack pillow.  Then he huffed like a petulant five year old and turned away, muttering.

 

"Genetically superior, John." The words were muffled and truculently grumbled into the pillow. 

 

Again, John rolled his eyes and flopped back in his chair rubbing at his temple with a free hand.  He spotted his glass on the side table, thankful it had survived the miniature pillow fight.  He retrieved it and downed the last of it in a single gulp.  Then, through a stifled a yawn, he reaffirmed, "Right. No. Not happening"

 

"Quitter!" the other man retorted succinctly, over top of the pillow just under his nose that he clung to.

 

John wasn't about to let that challenge go unanswered.  Darting across the parlor he jumped on top of his flat mate, wrestling free the pillow he so ardently tried to use in defense. "You can't quit what you didn't start, you sod!" he jeered as he pushed the pillow down on the others face.

 

The doctor fought his struggling flat mate, managing to keep him pinned down with his body weight, letting him breath at fairly regular intervals between the smothering.  The long limbs attempted to push him off, all failing, as John cackled wickedly.  This was revenge and he was not afraid to admit that he loved every second of it.  That was until a sharp knee caught John in the shoulder blade, thrusting him forward, as the hips beneath him bucked sideways.  Thrown off balance the two tumbled off of the couch and onto the floor with a loud whack, swearing and fighting and laughing.

 

The doctor struggled against the other who was now on top of him, fighting to keep his hands free from capture, when Sherlock's knees pinned his biceps, effectively ending the struggle for dominance.  Sitting straight upright on his prisoner, he crowed triumphantly, "Ah-Ha! I've won, Doctor Watson, you must yield."

 

"Not likely," John snapped, "soldier, remember?"  The smaller man fought past the stinging pain of the knees in the flesh of his arm, managing to thrust and kick his legs up to catch the unsuspecting detective by the shoulders, throwing him off.

 

They tussled to gain control, swatting and grappling one another, but John was faster and slightly more coordinated, having not indulged in the boozy eggnog as much as some of the others had. Knocking Sherlock's elbows out from under him, he jumped on top of the man, flattening him against the throw rug beneath them with the press of his entire body weight—which in truth was slightly less than the taller detective’s.

 

"Bullocks," Sherlock complained bitterly, still attempting to struggle, "you cheated. Using your war tactics."

 

John allowed himself a victorious smirk, leaning over his mouth to the others ear to whisper a quick jibe, "Mm-hmm, yeah, I never said I would fight fair."  Then dismounted, pushing himself up and off of his flat mate, offering the other a hand up, "now come on. Let's get you to bed before you have any more great deductions."

 

Sherlock grumbled a mild protest but took the hand and got to his feet.  John did love it when he got the upper hand on the devil.  Sherlock was hilarious when he pouted.  He put all of his effort into it, pursing those full lips which only accentuated the strong cupids bow, lowering those dark eyes over a saturnine glare that brooked no argument.  The detective, however, complied fairly willingly with the doctor's directions now, allowing the other to pull him down the hallway towards his bedroom. 

 

Once there John turned the rumpled bed covers down, grabbing his friend by the shoulders and pushed him to sit down on the edge of the mattress.  He didn't fuss with the clothes.  He simply laid Sherlock back and helped him swing his legs into the bed, before pulling the covers back over him.  Christ, he really did feel like he was caring for a child.  

 

With his head laid back on the pillow, his dark curls were mussed, framing the high chiseled cheek bones and the half-hooded varisctie orbs.  They were no longer violent but calm, every color of the ocean reflected in their depths.  The sudden shift in temperament made John pause.

 

Softly, Sherlock requested the unexpected.  "Come to bed with me, John."

 

The doctor's mouth twitched with amusement, but he leaned his hands down on the edge of the high mattress, and answered, "Ugh, no, Sherlock. I'm afraid spooning after that conversation might not be in our best interests. You're really drunk..." he was unable to stop the unbidden laughter that rose in his throat.  He shook his head and finished, "I can't believe it...and what was it? Two, maybe three glasses?"

 

Sherlock's full lips curled just slightly and quietly he responded, "You should be thanking me, John."

 

Chuckling the doctor eyed his friend, whose owe gaze seemed to somewhat shyly be admiring some errant spot on the bed-covers. "Thanking you, hm?"

 

Those kaleidoscope eyes flashed up to meet his for just a moment, something odd catching John’s attention before they looked away again. There was still mirth in the tone and warmth in the others hand that rested on his own now on the bed. "Or Mrs. Hudson's rum, if you prefer."

 

"And for what exactly?" The blonde’s curiosity was growing, Sherlock wasn't usually so cryptic with his speech unless he was testing John. "Other than the fun I'm going to have tomorrow watching you hung over." 

 

Sherlock’s fingers were cool as they absorbed the heat from John’s own beneath them. His lazy gaze admired the site of his hand on the other man’s and he squeezed a little, unconsciously, to lock the sensation in his mind. "If not for the effects of the alcohol lowering my inhibitions than perhaps I would never have gotten the courage to express my feelings."

 

The hand on the doctor’s own again squeezed lightly and John started to feel the slow creep of heat up his neck to his face, as the brunet leaned in a little closer to him as he chuckled a little nervously. "You're feelings about making genetic super-babies with your flatmate?"

 

"Not quite, John." Sherlock’s words ended with his hand snapping a hard grip on the doctor’s wrist, suddenly tugging him off balance.  With a roll he pulled the two of them into a tumble. 

 

"Gah, Sherlock!?" John managed, as the force of the roll pulled him flailing over top of the other man in a tangle of limbs and blankets, until he finally found himself under the lanky body of the consulting detective. Once again he was pinned by his flatmate but the edge of competition was gone. It was just the weight of the other’s body holding him in place, their faces only a few inches from one another.  The shifting prisms of those eyes held him in place and caused his mouth to go suddenly dry at what he saw within them. 

 

"My feelings for you." Sherlock’s breath was warm and sweet on his face, his eyes darting between John’s lips and eyes as he spoke.  "That's what others use alcohol for, isn't it? To say all the things they may not otherwise and to make themselves foolishly believe that they are somehow braver by the crutch of it?" 

 

John was fighting hard against a clashing wave of impulses, from shoving the other off him to ludicrous ideas that involved shutting those wide cupid lips with his own. He could feel himself tensing as the heat of the others body contributed to the sweat that was forming on his brow. Nervously he licked his own lips, eyes blinking more than necessary as he tried to look away from the darkened pools of Sherlock’s gaze.

 

"Right." He managed.  "Good deduction. Now, leave off, would you?" John pushed against the other to lean up, when he was stopped dead in his efforts to escape by the timid ghost-soft touch of those full lips against his own.

 

He went stock still.  Neither man breathing, both hanging in that moment for an eternity, with their lips just barely touching one another. Sherlock had actually kissed him.  The detective had gotten into the liquor, told John he wanted to have babies with him, asked him to bed, and then _kissed_ him. Despite how many drinks John had observed the consulting detective enjoy, there must have been something far stronger than just rum in that eggnog. 

 

John wasn't gay and Sherlock, well…he didn't really think about it much but the doctor was pretty sure he had a thing for 'the woman'.

 

The thoughts quickly evaporated with the need for oxygen registering right around the time the lips against his own stirred slightly and, as his own mouth parted to suck in a breath, he felt the inquisitive swipe of a wet tongue dart out against his mouth. The flush that rolled over the doctor swept up from the legs entwined with his own, all the way up, though the press of the other man’s hard stomach against his groin, through his chest, speeding up his heart, sending a wave of tingles through to his fingers and up to his own lips, which in turn slowly reacted to the probing digit by parting further. 

 

John was not sure who had moaned.  The sound had been rapturous and he felt like part of it had been his own and perhaps the other had been the detective on top of him, the result of the overpowering arousal that was quickly consuming them both.  The doctor allowed the tongue to experiment, moaning more pleasurably the more it explored.  As he did so he could feel his own fingers in the dark mess of curls over top of him, holding that hot moist mouth against his own, those full supple lips pressed tight against him. 

 

There was another moan, breathy and gasping, that was really truly the mingled sounds of both their spiraling intemperance, as he felt the body above him begin to slowly move into alignment with his own.  It was an odd sensation, both intensely sensual and pleasing but also slightly alarming.  John was surprised at the ease with which the movement was succeeded, like to pieces of a working machine coming together, both feeling the press of the other’s enjoyment with each shift of their hips together. 

 

John allowed the mouth to leave his own, gasping for a breath and moaning at the same time.  His eyes were screwed shut, his mind was frozen, he was on autopilot—this required it, all he wanted now was to feel and to enjoy the new sensations he was unaccustomed to experiencing when snogging.  The soft mouth moved lower and away, trailing wet kisses and stimulating scrapes of teeth against his neck.  Hot hands were against his skin, his jumper had been pulled up his torso, and he let out a soft cry of surprise as the wet tongue suddenly jumped to delve in and around his navel.  His entire body tensed in response, the tongue lapping, circling, tracing each bump of his abdominals in turn, before he felt the unmistakable pull of fingers at the fly of his jeans. 

 

It had happened before he could think, before he could understand, before he could stop it.  The jeans gave way too easily, pressed apart by the deft hands the worked them open and by the press of his own arousal against the enclosing fabric.  Sherlock’s mouth on him, he felt the head of himself taken between those wet pink lips, tongue tantalizingly flicking.

 

John’s mind finally caught up and his hands came the man’s shoulders with a thrust, pulling himself free of the pleasure.  “N-no!  Not that…” was all he managed to lamely sputter, before his wits returned and he added, “You don’t have to.”

 

Sherlock was not surprised, had no doubt deduced his protest, and the heavy dark brows narrowed at the doctor above a swollen mouth, wet from its progress, whose corners quirked up in a smirk that was not mocking but knowing.  “You assume that I do not want to.” He said.  White teeth bit down into the bottom lip.  John couldn’t bring himself to look away and he felt his erection twist with interest between them.  The teeth pulled back, slowly, deliberately, and then the mouth parted, as he spoke again in his rumbling baritone, “I haven’t given you your present yet, John.”

 

John’s eyes shot from the mouth to the eyes.  He knew he must look ridiculous, incredulous, in utter disbelieve, and shock.  He felt his heart pounding, could hear its irregular rhythm in his ears, but could bring himself to utter nothing in turn.

 

The detective gave a small shrug of his shoulders and then laid a hand against his chest, gently directing John to lay back on the bed.  The doctor complied—why, he could not say—as Sherlock explained, in his matter of fact way, “It’s alright.  I know what I am doing.  I researched how all day while you cleaned up for the party.”

 

“What?!” John laughed outright, laying an arm across his heated face.  “That’s what you were doing with my laptop?”

 

Sherlock smiled, before ducking his head back down.  John kept the arm over his eyes, over his face, not wanting to look nor to be seen, red with fluster.  He felt the tongue again.  It circled him, lapped, teased, then the hot rush of heat, as the mouth took him inside, and this time he placed aside his inhibition, his anxieties, and troublesome thoughts, allowing the other to give him what they both truly desired.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Was Sherlock really drunk, do you think? XD


End file.
